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Rated R for Violence and Language
July 19, 1955. Saigon is a city gone bad. The heat of the summer is a crazy heat, getting into the mind as much as it soaks the body with sweat. Even in the halls of government, where Prime Minister Ngo Dinh Diem has led for a little over a month, there is no escaping the heat.
Saigon is also crazy this summer because everything is changing. It is a city at the crossroads, still recovering from Japan's genocidal rule in the Second World War. The French, who ruled for years before the war who administered the Japanese evil as a Vichy satellite, are still in control of nearly everything. They are anxious to leave this "Paris of the Orient" since their loss at the battle of Dien Bien Phu to Uncle Ho's army. You can see it in their eyes as they drink in the bars. They talk in hushed tones, looking around, always looking. They are hated by the Vietnamese people, and they know it.
The Americans are here too, and they run things now. They are so rich that the working girls are bringing their families into the city from the villages; so rich that the businessmen on the street grow fat. There are fewer of the Americans, because they send only diplomats and advisors. Not like the French, who have 150,000 troops in this southern partition of Vietnam. They are here for their own reasons, and are more concerned with putting money in to the country than extracting it in the form of rice and labor - so they are welcomed for now.
Lieutenant Nick Fury, decorated U.S. Army Ranger and veteran of two wars, doesn't wait for evening to walk outside, like most westerners. He braves the crazy heat, and walks down the street like he owns it, but not like a Frenchman. The French treat the people like slaves and whores, and always act as though they are in their own whorehouse.
The sweat streams down his face as he lights a cigar and blows the smoke hard to keep it lit. He walks into the shadows of the housing district, what most would call a `shanty town.' Fury finds it no cooler, only darker, and unsnaps his sidearm in a practiced, unconscious motion. The smells in the air are familiar cooking scents - bamboo shoots, greens, maybe some fish. The boards below his feet creak at his weight - they were never built for a man of his considerable size.
Fury stops in the front of one bungalow, and freezes. He puts his arms out to his sides and doesn't move for a moment. His green fatigues are soaked through with sweat, and bear no marks of rank or insignia. After a moment, four young men step out of the shadows and cock their M-1 carbines. They seem small and thin next to Fury, but they stare with a frightening intensity.
"Parlez?" Fury asks.
"Parlez parlez!" They shout, and circle Fury. He is ushered inside the bungalow and his .45 sidearm is taken. In an interior room, a man sits and smokes. A bottle of brandy sits open on the table in front of him, a drink poured. The man wears the uniform of a police captain. He is in his early thirties, and his hair is dark, his features somewhat round, although he is not fat.
"Est-ce que vous sont Captain Tranh?"
"It is well, I speak English. You are Lt. Fury?"
"Sure. If you're Capt. Tranh, I have a message for you from my boss."
"Very well, Lieutenant. I am Tranh."
"My government needs to ask you for something, Captain. The new Prime Minister wants to do away with the Binh Xuyen. He is not strong enough to do this..."
"Diem is soft, and the Binh Xuyen is strong! We will break Diem before he will break us! Your government needs to find a puppet that can survive. Diem is a dead man. If we don't get him, the religious fanatics of the Cao Dai or the Hoa Hao will. He will not defeat those zealots and us as well. We Binh Xuyen are the police in Saigon. We are the city."
"Keep yer shirt on, Tranh. Nobody's sayin' you're gonna get the heave-ho. Hear me out. In fact, my government thinks you're doing such a good job here, you should be part of the security forces."
"Do you know how much money we earn from the heroin trade? From gambling? Prostitution? We should leave it to fight in the rice paddies against Uncle Ho?" Laughing, he drinks his brandy and pours another.
"We could pay some of your expenses. You wouldn't be poor."
"Show me."
Fury reaches into his shirt and pulls out a wad of bills. He counts the money out on the table and slides it to Tranh without speaking.
"We shall see. You Americans are harder to deal with than the French. You do not give bribes - or receive them - easily. It is not natural to you. To the French it is a way of life. I will talk about it with my men. You will meet me back here in two days." Tranh gets up and puts Fury's pistol on the table, and motions Fury to stay in his seat. He turns to leave when the sound of an explosion startles both men.
They hit the floor at the same time. Another explosion shakes the building, this one much closer. There is shouting from Tranh's young bodyguards, and the sound of M-1 carbines firing fast. Screams from the men echo, but are choked out.
The door crashes to the floor, and a dark figure walks in, with a strange metallic shine. He wears a medieval tunic over some kind of dark armor. There is a heraldic symbol on his chest, with a prominent letter `C.' His sword is long and bloody, with a hand and arm dangling from it, remains of the boys outside. There are dents and scratches on the suit, but it is intact, the bullets that struck it having bounced off, and the man shows no signs of having been shot. He knocks the bloody mass from his sword, and gets more blood on his tunic.
"I am the Chevalier, hero of France!" He says in his native tongue. "You are to come with me!" He lunges at the stunned Tranh, but is tripped by Fury and falls, smashing the table and brandy bottle.
Fury's French is quite good, learned on the continent during WWII, so the words are easily understood. He turns to Tranh: "Run!"
Tranh is roused from his stupor. He runs nimbly out the back door.
The Chevalier rises quickly, with great power. He turns to Fury, his face covered by a medieval style helmet but obviously enraged. "I will remember you!" He bounds out the back of the bungalow, taking down the whole wall without slowing. The sound of his sword striking is the same as the explosions Fury heard earlier. What is this Chevalier?
Fury tumbles out the window before the thin metal roof comes down on him. He smoothly rolls to his feet and runs. He pushes through the crowd that has gathered, and looks for the Chevalier. He hears some crashing in the distance, and runs toward it, stepping over the scattered remains of the guards. A wall and a building are in the way of his progress. He scales the wall in two bounds, and jumps on the roof of the building, nearly falling through.
Stopping to listen again, he hears screams, and jumps on a bamboo scaffolding, running along its length. Finally, he sees the Chevalier closing on a stumbling and exhausted Tranh.
At the end of the scaffolding, Fury leaps. He flies through the air, down to the hulking Chevalier. He land on a wall behind him, and drapes his legs over the edge, flipping himself to hang upside down.
Tranh is on his back, begging in Vietnamese. The Chevalier raises his sword to finish the man.
Fury takes the Chevalier's helmet in his right hand and wrenches it, so it obscures the knight's vision. The Chevalier turns and raises his hands to adjust his helmet.
Hanging by his feet, Fury sticks the nose of his .45 in the eye hole of the Chevalier's helmet, and empties the clip. The smell of gunpowder is strong, and there is a wet, gurgling sound from inside the helmet. The Chevalier falls, and lays still.
Fury jumps down from the wall, landing on his feet. "Man," he says over the Chevalier's body, "is De Gaulle ever going to be pissed at me."
II
July 22, 1998
G.W. Bridges isn't a man known for his patience. He stands at the foot of Fury's grave as though he's waiting for a train that is late. His pocket watch is in his right hand, and he studies it. He glances around the area, puts the watch away, straightens his overcoat, and starts to walk.
"Where are you going?"
The voice, from the shadows behind him, startles Bridges. He was sure no one was there. "Nick Fury. So you're not dead."
Fury steps out of the shadows. A man of indeterminate age, he stands six and a half feet tall and weighs much more than his lean build shows. His face is severe and vaguely sad, as though he's seen something he wished he hadn't. There is a patch over his left eye. He wears a long and somewhat dingy overcoat and dark cloths, and chews disinterestedly on a cigar. "You knew that, Bridges, or else you wouldn't have come here. This ain't a condolence call. You've visited two straight days. What's on your mind?"
"You. We know you cooked up this scheme with Castle. You had him shoot you with drugged bullets to fake your own death. We've known that for months. What we don't know is why?"
"Frank and me go way back - to `Nam - Hué Province. He was willin' to help. For me, I just wanted out. Is that so hard to understand?"
"For you it is. You've been the Director since the organization was founded."
"Let me put it to you this way; Captain America is from my generation. There ain't many of us left. But Cap was in suspended animation for almost thirty years. While he was a popsicle, I was fighting in Manila, and Guatemala, and Teheran. And, yeah - Saigon. And Hanoi. I'm tired, Bridge. I had my finger stuck in the dike a long time. I ain't so sure it's helping."
"I think I understand. I didn't mean to disturb your rest. We got a message I thought you'd want." Bridge hands Fury a note.
Fury's eyes widen and Bridge thinks he sees a hint of a tear forming. Fury looks up. His voice is choked. "Bridge, I need a few favors."
"We can't hide you if you come back from the dead, Fury. If you come back, it's got to be all the way. I'll level with you; there are some things going on that we're going to need your help with. I need you back. What do you say?"
"You cover me on this, Bridge, and I'll come back. Not as Director, though. I'm done with being an administrator, and you're doing a damn fine job from what I hear. I'll come back as a consultant. I choose my assignments. Okay?"
"You got it. Welcome back." Behind Bridge a hover car dropped gently from the dark sky in a whoosh of air. "Give you a ride?"
"Sure." Nick Fury stepped into the car wondering if he was making the same mistake all over again.
III
July 19, 1998. The Meeting/Events Room at the Hilton was full to capacity, 250 men and women in their uniform attire. Dress was mandatory for the annual meeting, though many were uncomfortable in the garish green outfits.
"Too sixties," was the most common complaint on the sumptuous buffet line. "Like wearing a green tarp." was another. One of the agents was a caterer, in the daytime, and put on quite a spread. There was more grumbling about having to wear the hood while they ate. You couldn't help but get the bottom of it soiled with food. Most agents had their own lives, now. They'd started in the 60's, sprung from the idealism - and the cynicism - of that decade. Fascism was on the decline then, but hadn't Italy elected a Fascist government a few years ago? Authority had made a comeback, and Hydra was there to reap the rewards.
As agents of Hydra's New York headquarters, most were planners and administrators. Many of the soldiers recruited in the 60's had died along with the first Supreme Hydra in Central America. Today's Hydra muscle was in it for the money. Thanks to some well-placed investments and a few key patents, there was plenty of cash. The fifty or so armed soldiers in the room kept mainly to themselves, and heaped their plates full at the buffet.
After an hour to eat and digest, and after coffee was served, the Supreme Hydra cleared his throat at the podium. He was, rather, `a' Supreme Hydra - one of a dozen in the United States alone. The speakers squawked feedback, and then settled down.
"Thank you for coming here this evening," his voice was muffled under the mask. The Supreme Hydra of New York and surrounding Burroughs was of average height, somewhat squat, and his fifty years showed on his physique. "I'm glad to see such a good turnout. I hope Barry, sorry, Agent 127 brought some refills for the desert table. I can't even look at it myself, but it seems like most of you found some room for desert. Let's have a big round of applause for the caterers. They did a hell of a job."
The room responded with a polite but enthusiastic applause. Agent 127 waved to everybody.
The Supreme raises his right fist in the air, and the room joins him, chanting: "Hail Hydra! Immortal Hydra! We shall never be destroyed! Cut off one limb and two more shall serve us! We serve the Supreme Hydra, and the world shall soon serve us!"
"Great. Now, before I get on to this years Annual Report, I'd like to introduce a guest. This man has recently taken over as Supreme Hydra of Iceland in Reykjavik." He looked around the room, "Thought I couldn't pronounce it, didn't you?" There was a mild chuckle. "Norge Hammerstrom has made tiny Iceland a center for innovative Hydra thinking. Iceland is our #1 country for import and export of high-tech weaponry. In fact, most of the weapons we use in New York come from Iceland. It is #4 in terror initiatives, #8 extortion, and # 22 in body count this year. That's damned impressive for a small country Hydra. Now, without more blather from me, I present Supreme Hydra, Iceland!"
The green-uniformed audience applauded again. The man who stood up from the head table was at least a foot taller than New York's Supreme. He was lean and muscular, and wore a jet-black uniform, skin tight, with a military-style gun belt, and a round green Hydra symbol over the breast. He was blond and in his middle thirties, and wore no hood. He looked around the room before starting.
"Things are changing in Hydra." He pulled out his automatic pistol and shot the Supreme Hydra of New York in the head. The gun made a metallic `clack' and the man slid off the chair.
There were screams, and the Agents rose from their chairs. The soldiers took out their weapons, and stood frozen. The people up front kept their distance, but spoke in a cacophony of protest.
"Quiet!" Hammerstrom's Icelandic accent was thick as he shouted into the microphone. "I am Supreme of all Hydras now! I suggest you consider your commitment to us. We will be moving forward in the coming months. You will be expected to lay down your lives. This isn't a tea party any more."
The back door burst open, and men dressed in black with masks and Hydra symbols rushed in, armed. They stood still, covering the room.
"That's all for now." Hammerstrom stalked confidently to the door, and stopped before leaving. "Oh, yes. Fantastic buffet."
IV
July 19, 1998. The streets around the Bowery section of New York city are hard to tell apart from each other. There is an oppressive gloom in the air, like an emotion waiting to be felt. At midnight in the summer, there is a chill in the air and every couple of blocks a fire burns in a drum; men stand around it, warming themselves. The curse of alcohol and drug addiction has ravaged the bodies and stolen the heart from the people who live here.
Most sleep outdoors. It's not the safest place to be, but there's no choice. For a few, there are buildings you can get into if you know how, and if you know who is inside. Most people with a roof over their heads don't take kindly to strangers. Once inside, the stench of unwashed humanity would make most visitors step back. The squalor of the living conditions, coupled with the paralyzing effect of substance abuse, make the abandoned buildings home to rats and insects of all descriptions, as well as human beings.
`Check day' is a relief for some of men and women who subsist in the Bowry. For those who can make it to the welfare office, it means food and life and, yes, booze and drugs - chosen over food by most, so deep is their addiction. Check day also means the predators come around. They don't bother the "bums" on other days, unless they're bored. Not worth the effort. Except on check day. The money taken from the weak and dying will serve to feed the young predators' own addictions, continuing the cycle another generation.
Midnight on a summer evening. Check day. In the alley behind the old grocery store which hasn't been open since Johnson was President, the predators walk. They are excited. They feel the need within themselves, the six of them. The feel it and they tell the hunger that tonight it will be fed. Crack and booze, as much as you want, soon.
They pry back the plywood covering on the basement window. Crawling inside, even the predators notice the smell. Sometimes, the residents smell it, too. Not today, though. Check, day, and everyone's stoned.
The six fan out. One after another, the residents are rolled over and their belongings searched. A few dollars here and there are the prize. Some wake up and stay quiet as the strange hands rummage through their clothes, their few belongings. Some don't wake up at all, they are so far gone into the only world they know. The silence is eerie, with so many laying on the floor, and the six predators moving, moving.
And then, a scream.
"My baby!" A woman sits up and holds the only thing of value she has. The man freezes, still holding her bag and the few dollars she has left. The noise echos through the silent house.
He wants to say `go to the soup kitchen tomorrow, they'll feed your baby,' and he wants to say `my need is too strong,' but he can only yell back: "Shut up, bitch!"
There is a murmur as the residents sit up. The five other predators freeze. One says: "shut the fuck up, all of you!"
An old man, shriveled by age and years of substance abuse, struggles to his feet. He wears his ragged clothes in three layers, summer and winter. He has no place to store his clothes other than his thin, weak body. His hand trembles as he raises it to point at the predator with the woman's bag. In a voice that is shaky, but has an edge of something solid, he says: "put it down."
The youth has a rusty screwdriver in his right hand. Without another word he bounds to the old man and jabs it toward his stomach. The man is not in the way of the weapon, somehow. Without moving more than a six inches, the old man has side-stepped the screwdriver, and grabbed the predator's wrist, turning it with the little strength he has. Using the natural arc of the predator's own attack, the weapon is brought back around and jabbed, hard, into his own kneecap.
The youth doubles over and opens his mouth to scream. The old man, working methodically, his face serene, sticks his bony finger in the youth's eye down to the knuckle, into the brain tissue. The predator squeals and falls over.
The other five youths, with their own dead expressions, ignore their companion. They close on the old man, and begin hitting, kicking, stabbing. There isn't much left of him when they finish. They turn and go, dragging the wounded predator with them, only to leave him in a dumpster. They have no place for the wounded in their world.
The old man barely breaths. His body is torn, his limbs broken, his face bruised and pitted. The residents do what they can for him. An ambulance is called from a phone booth, but won't arrive for a long time, if it ever does. They don't like to go into the buildings. One old man, who shared many a bottle and many a night of DT's when there wasn't a bottle, takes the faded newspaper clipping from his friend's bloody shirt. He carefully unfolds it, and takes it outside to a payphone.
In the dim streetlight, with the warm flickering flame of a burning barrel down the street as company, he dials. A series of operators finally give him the switchboard he's looking for. In the best voice he can, he tells the woman on the phone that an old man is dying.
He puts the receiver back gently, as if not to jolt the scarred and dented public phone. The date on the clipping is April 10, 1965. The print is smudged and yellow with age, but the headline is still clear: "FURY NAMED RAMROD OF SHIELD."
Two days later, no ambulance has arrived. The old man holds on to his life with an unexpected tenacity. The woman whose baby he fought to protect left the next morning and hasn't been seen since. He has a fever that is burning, and he cannot move at all. He is in great pain. The cool of the evening calms him, but in the heat of the day he cannot help but moan. Today, though, he didn't moan and the residents know he will die tonight.
Midnight, and the predators are elsewhere. Down the dark ally a man walks. A big man, with a confident gait, but not cocky. Sure of himself, without the fear that even the predators wear on these streets, knowing that anyone can become prey.
He shines a small light on the buildings, looking for a number or a mark. Finally, he comes to the plywood cover, and bends it back without breaking it. Somehow he fits his massive shoulders through the opening, and moves inside like a great cat. If he notices the smell, you couldn't tell from his reaction.
As he moves inside, the residents freeze, an unspoken "oh, no" in their body language. The old man, with his friend mopping his brow with a rag, cannot open his eyes to see the intruder. The large man flashes his pin-light on them, and walks over, careful not to step on any person or what may be their belongings.
Gently, he touches the battered old man's face, and the eyes open for the first time. They meet those of the stranger, and neither man speaks.
Finally, the large man says: "Aw, hell, Dino. Look what they done to you."
The stranger stands up, but has to stoop under the low ceiling. He turns to go, and the old man's friend says: "Hey! You just can't leave him here."
The battered man, Dino, squeezes his friends hand and whispers: "let him go. It's my fault."
There is a rumbling sound, the sound of many feet. The plywood is torn from the entry. There is a bright light, and men pour into the room. A voice bellows above all, a voice made of steel, a voice that has given a thousand commands in battle. A voice that is choked with emotion tonight.
"I want medevac for everybody, and don't take no guff! They can sue me in the morning if they want."
The SHIELD Emergency Medical Extraction team secures the room and turns it into a hospital, removing everyone in under two minutes.
Dino is taken in an intensive care stretcher, with a mobile life-support unit. Outside, under flood-lamps, a SHIELD Assault Team guards the advanced jet-choppers. The people are taken swiftly aboard and the engines whisper their readiness to lift off.
The big man stands outside on the street. He touches the communication switch on his wrist: "you go! I'll come along later."
The mighty airships lift off, and the street is quiet again, as if they were never there.
Nick Fury stands alone, and wipes the tear from his one good eye. "Aw hell, Dino."
Notes:
Dino Manelli was a Howler. More on that next time.
OHMU says Fury got his Lt. rank in Korea and worked for the CIA, before becoming a Colonel by helping the French in Vietnam. I plan to look at this period in his life more closely.
As usual, historical events and situations are true.
Next: The Howlers.
